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Updated: May 31, 2025
Vard, your best friends ... Miss Vard, won't you speak to your father?" He turned to me haggardly; "We can get out by the back way?" I nodded. Vard stood towering in some infernal way he seemed literally to rise to the situation one hand in the bosom of his coat, in the attitude of patriotism in bronze. I glanced at his daughter: she hung on him with a drowning look.
Vard himself took little interest in the portrait, but she watched me closely, and one day when the sitting was over she stayed behind and asked me when I meant to begin what she called "the likeness." I guessed from her tone that the embarrassment was all on my side, or that if she felt any it was at having to touch a vulnerable point in my pride.
That's the way I felt then; only give me a chance, I wanted to shout out to them; and I saw at once that Vard was my chance. I had come over from Paris in the autumn to paint Mrs. Clingsborough, and I met Vard and his daughter at one of the first dinners I went to. After that I could think of nothing but that man's head. What a type!
You're going to get him, blab-mouth, mob-rule, mortification, and merry hell the whole bagful! Do you want that for this State, Vard?" "Our State can't afford to have such a man," agreed General Waymouth, "but " "I'd, myself, rather see a Democrat win at the polls!" shouted Thornton. "But the Democrat that they've got in line is worse than Spinney.
"Vard," broke in the Duke, conciliatingly, "don't take so much for granted. Why, there are folks suspicious enough to accuse Saint Peter of starting Lent and ticking off Fridays from the meat programme simply because he was in the fish business. Let's not get to fussing about a set of convention resolutions. They're mostly wind, anyway." But General Waymouth was not appeased.
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